Getting to Sanctuary
by ravenpoo
Summary: A short story that you might find interesting.


Getting to Sanctuary

I can never find a good song on the radio. Sitting shotgun, I spin the tuning dial, judging each song after hearing a splash of music.

"Should I just stop trying?" I ask Stan as I settle on an advertisement.

"Here, you shouldn't," he replies and then gently turns the dial one click. The harsh beat of "Only" fills the car immediately. How does he always manage to find that one radio wave in the ocean of objectionable stations?

The car embraces a cliff and water beats the broken rocks below. I would tell Stan to look at the sunrise, but he has been on the road since 3 am, and I don't want to risk an awed gaze off the road or a weary, impulsive turn of the wheel towards the orange. Maybe we will get there soon, before the sun rises too high and reflects on the Pacific's surface, blinding us mercilessly.

"So, are we there yet?" I playfully ask.

Stan smiles and shakes his head, keeping his eyes on the road, "No. Not yet, maybe another hour."

Sinking down into the car seat, I watch the posts of the roadside safety barrier flash by the passenger window. Hypnotized by their transient nature, I think of William. He used to twirl his head to examine every other post's every other post. In the moment where he twisted his head, he explained to me once, he could see that one post go by leisurely as everything else seemed to rip by and slump in the distance. There is a thick silence; Stan had clicked the radio off during my mental absence.

"Can I ask you a question?" I say gently, staring at Stan.

"Of course."

"Why do you insist that I go there?" I keep watching him, I examine his face closely. He clenches his jaw; I can see the facial movement; his mandible pressed against his flesh is quite pronounced.

"Renee, we discussed this earlier."

"I still don't understand."

"You need a vacation. You're too stressed. How can you be healthy?"

"I feel fine."

"I don't think you're fine."

"I am, though."

"Well, you're wrong."

"How would you know how I feel?"

"I really wouldn't, but I think that it would be best for you to go to this resort." Even though he keeps his eyes on the road, I know they grow dull like glass buffeted by sea and sand. His eyes flitter; he is trying to make a barrier of indifference to keep out my imploring face.

"I'd rather have stayed home, you know."

"No, this is better for you."

"You know what, Stan?" I'm still watching him carefully.

"Please, tell me."

There's a long silence; I wish that the radio was still on. I really want Stan to understand me. Today, the ocean is an azurite gloss with a violent surface; however, water is not actually blue. Its surface reflects the energy emitted from the vacant sky, which ultimately stems from the sun. Realistically, the ocean I coast above is a liquid mass and the wet azure and crests spraying bleach foam are translations of light from a remote source.

"You don't know what is best for me."

"I think that I do."

Stan, does it matter to me what you think? Water is not blue. I realized that three months ago. There were hours to squander; I stared at a glass of water for several days. In the florescent lighting, the liquid was glaringly transparent. What would happen if I were to pour the liquid into the sea? There would not be a feathering stain of nothing. That would be absurd. Instead, the liquid would reflect the sky and be blue water. I blamed the unbecoming lighting; had the glass been pitched into the Pacific, its contents would have been brilliant.

"Stan, that doesn't matter. I know what is best for me and I am fine. I would have liked to stay home, though."

The sun is rudely obscured. A pretentious chiffon cloud dances in front of the radiant light source like a showgirl in a spotlight. The blue shifts darker. What would happen if the sun were gone completely and surely? Or better yet, what about the disappearance of every spring of light? Not considering humanity's imminent death caused by encroaching ice, starved plantation, or nonexistent road visibility, there would be nothing. If Stan were able to not crash through the roadside safety barriers, avoiding sending posts into our fragile bodies, the Pacific, hundreds of feet below, would be gone. The liquid would simply be there; we would not be able to see its specific shade of blue, grey, or even clear. Turning on a light, however, I would be able to judge the shade of the water. Does this mean that the supply of light determines the water?

"We're not going back."

"It would be nice if we did."

I don't see the point in going. The sun is unblemished again and following suit, the water is like blue zirconium. It disappoints me that the blue is dragged by the leash that the orange and gold light hold. In an ideal world, water would be one blue and only one blue. Maybe not even blue. Maybe orange. Water is nothing if not for the sun and its arms of embracing enlightenment.

"I've been driving all morning."

"So?" I challenge. I am glad that we left early to evade the midday heat. Had the car been glowing under the rays, Stan might have tried to click on the fan or roll down the window. He might have then unintentionally shot off the cliff, hung in the air for a few seconds, felt his body lift to the sky during free fall, and then be smothered by repetitive waves that grabbed for his life. Then he would drown. But that is only if he wasn't crushed by the pikes of stone or pierced by the windshield, which would shatter upon impact. Or maybe life would just flutter from his body as he streaked towards the horizon, or better yet, be pulled out of him with hooks from angels who couldn't watch him die.

"Renee… I am positive that you will enjoy the resort." He stole a look at me.

"Please, if you do anything, watch the road. Keep two hands on the steering wheel. Drive slowly," I demand urgently. What does he want to do? Carelessly let the car slide off the cliff, our skin tear, and the water and wash swallow us and roll our bodies under the seabed? An animal would eventually drag the swollen remains from the sand and kelp. It would eat most of the corpses, but surely something would escape and then in a few months time, our families would hear about a bloated foot discovered by a toddler on the sunny, orange beach of… say… a resort?

"Don't worry. I won't let anything happen."

I press my lips and think for a while.

"Stan?"

"Yes?"

"You know that it's not a resort. Now you know that I know that it's not a resort." "They're basically the same thing."

"It's a rehabilitation center."

"The same thing."

"Not at all."

"Drop it, Renee." There is an exhausted, desperate cut to his voice. Maybe I should stop. The car is filled with silence like clay.

"It kills me to see you like this."

"I know."

The relationship between the ocean and the sun is disappointing, but I accept the notion. The thoughts of Pacific being blue just because it is blue and the waves and the sun living in independent harmony are charming. They dare me to revoke my new belief; however, a lesson I learned three months ago now attempts to brace my resolution with steel and twisted metal. Romantics are dead.

"I'd do anything to help you."

William's foot tapping still clicks in my memory; he was tapping his foot against the dashboard. Stan sees me frowning.

"Do you need anything?"

"I need you to keep an eye on the road." We are approaching a bend. Just imagine what could appear around that half-drawn sedimentary rock curtain. A vehicle steered by a madman who drives beyond the speed limit? Perhaps nothing. The latter, a slice of the road missing, would be troublesome. How would we survive? Stan might slam on the brakes, but he wouldn't have enough time to halt the car. There would be a jolt and a moment where we watched disaster approaching as the world whirled out of kilter like a busted, heartbreaking carousel.

"We're getting closer," Stan informs me and then gestures with his chin out the front window. The cliff slowly descends into a stream of sand unwinding in the distance. Without petulance, it subdues the throbbing waves. The concrete roadside safety barrier transitions into a wood fence. I feel insecure. I turn to Stan.

"Stan?"

"Yes, Renee?"

"I don't want to go to the center." I want to extinguish the sun. If I struggle to accept the disheartening status of water, why not purge light and eliminate the problem?

Three months earlier, young love had me convinced that William was bound to my future. Wet pavement, nagging fatigue, and a truck with dim lights resulted in a slow reaction time, a skidding struggle for safety, and a crushed Civic.

Stan looks worried. The gentle slope of his brow is now disturbed. His lip plummets. Without electromagnetic radiation, the Pacific, and everything else for that matter, would sizzle compliantly or crack, depending on whether the undertaker smothered the orange with sand or gave it a standard military execution. Wouldn't that create a sanctuary better than any resort?  
"I know. You're going anyway, though."

"No."

"Please understand why you need help. Do this for me."

"I understand, but you are wrong."

"Then do this for William."

The car was broken like sea shells. William was next to me; he breathed like a child tasting a parent's champagne. Since I was a girl in a sundress making daisy chains, I thought that, in death, my lover and I would drift away like two dandelion seeds. Children are buoyantly deluded. Instead, a drum roll of rain corroded William's throes of life with me. His eyes dimmed slowly.

"I can't do anything for him."

"If William were here, he would tell you to go to the resort."

"Well, he's not here. He's dead." And it's a rehab center, not a resort. No matter how many times you call it a resort, it will never be a resort. Water will never be orange.

"You need to get on with your life."

"I don't want to."

"That's too bad," Stan snapped. I acknowledge that life is tough. It doesn't surprise me how people readily toss their lives into the ocean and float away. By some terrible chance, the shale and sandstone wall could decide to cascade upon our automobile. Would airbags be deployed soon enough to keep Stan from crushing his face on the steering wheel? Would the airbags asphyxiate him? I'm no car expert, but if the boulders bore down on the engine, wouldn't we be engulfed in raging light and heat energy?

There is another bend in the road. Reflections of the sun off the water's surface make Stan squint. Three months ago, I was a strong swimmer. I practiced every morning at 6 am with William; that is how we met. Even though I had been incapacitated in a hospital bed one month earlier and incisions on my arms filch my ability to raise my hands for prolonged periods of time, my disciplined arms have sufficient force to shift the car into reverse and commandeer the steering wheel. Stan reacts quickly, but the chain of events is already slithering off the cliff. The flimsy wood fence gives little resistance; our car fires off the twenty-foot drop. Below, there is a waving band of sand to absorb us; however, alluring rocks vary the texture of the bland, grainy floor.

I watch Stan. He watches me. I would tell him to keep his eyes forward if our destination was still the resort. I marvel about the thoughts, like my sporadic radio station changing, sprinting through his brain. I think one content thing: I've got the crosshair over the sun.

8


End file.
